


Romance is Overrated, Anyway

by red_crate



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, M/M, Valentine's Day, Werewolf Courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 00:53:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17777453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/pseuds/red_crate
Summary: "So we're agreed. Casa Hale-Stilinski is going to be Valentine's Day free on February fourteenth.” Stiles leans forward to grab his portion of the take-out Peter brought home for dinner. He fucking loves shawarma.Or the one where Stiles (thinks he) knows exactly what he wants.





	Romance is Overrated, Anyway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving/gifts).



> I have been blocked for SO LONG, but this assignment really helped breathe some life into me. I hope you enjoy!

 

“Alright, family meeting,” Stiles announces, propelling himself over the back of the sofa to plop into the middle seat. “Valentine's Day.” 

Peter has the remote in hand, flipping through Hulu. “Stop using my furniture like it's a playground. Training Derek out of doing pull-ups in the door frames took long enough.” 

“I did it  _ once _ ,” Derek grouces from the overstuffed chair he all but claimed for himself the second day they were moved in. “And I was making a point.” 

Stiles stares off dreamily for a second and says, “Yeah. Good times.” 

Peter levels Stiles with a look while Derek tries to hide a smirk. “Why don't you get to  _ your _ point, Stiles?” 

“Right. So, you guys are two young—” Stiles squints his eyes at Peter, “-- _ ish _ , good looking dudes. I want to know what the game plan is. Derek, I know you and Kira are probably going to be doing something sickeningly cute or romantic or  _ both _ . Peter, I'm assuming you've got something kinky and dirty planned.” Stiles slumps a little, feeling more and more pathetically  _ single _ as he continues. He is going somewhere with this though. “That leaves me—single Pringle Stiles-- _ alone _ . And I love you long time and whatnot. Except I don't really want to be hanging around, listening to hot, sweaty, loud werewolf sex in stereo.” 

Derek looks a little pink in the cheeks though his expression is completely blank. Stiles has known him long enough to know that Derek is either embarrassed or annoyed. He hopes he stuck that delicate balance between the two emotions. 

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Peter chides as he selects a documentary for them to watch. It's about the prison system, which is going to be depressing and horrifying as fuck, Stiles is sure. “You're only single because you're your worst enemy.” 

Stiles already knows he's lacking game and chill, even if he did have a slight glow up in high school. “I'm not asking for advice here. I just want to make sure the apartment is my safe place, free of disgustingly cute couple shenanigans and disgustingly kinky shenanigans.” 

“Peter isn't the only one in this room into kinky stuff,” Derek points out, offended. His eyebrows are doing that thing that means he's saying something he  _ really _ doesn't want to. 

Stiles  _ lives _ for that eyebrow thing.

“Oh no, did I offend you?” Stiles delights, grinning devilishly. “Do you want to borrow some fuzzy handcuffs?” 

Derek glowers, the full weight of which barely even phases Stiles anymore. 

Peter hums, and asks, “Got anything more interesting than that?” Like  _ he's _ thinking about taking Stiles up on the offer. 

Stiles fights back the blush that he can feel blooming over his chest, threatening to crawl up his neck. It's ridiculous how even after living in the same apartment as Peter, Stiles hasn't been able to build up a defense against the older man's penchant for making things just a bit too sexual. 

“You can have my Lysol,” Stiles says. He hates the little smirk on Peter's face, the way Peter is so sure he's won. “No kink shaming, but I don't even want to think about the mess.” 

Peter widens his smirk into a sharp, glinting smile. Even wearing a pair of soft, faded pajama bottoms and the same black shirt he wore last night, Peter looks every bit the natural predator he is. “Why think, when I could show you?” 

Derek groans. “Stop it, Peter,” he says wearily. “Stiles, you know you could come hang out with us if you wanted.” 

Peter winces. “Nephew, surely even you know that is a terrible idea.” 

Stiles has to agree. “Yeah, dude, Kira is cool as hell, but even she wouldn't be happy about her boyfriend showing up with his best friend on their Valentine's date. Besides, third wheeling on Valentine's Day is possibly the  _ lamest _ thing I could do. Even worse than calling up Dad to watch  _ Die Hard _ together over the phone.” 

He's totally done that. Not that he's ashamed of watching movies over the phone with his dad. Stiles might be almost twenty-three, but that doesn't make living four hours away from his dad any easier. Even so, he  _ knows _ it sounds a little bit childish. 

Derek says, “Maybe.” His expression goes pinched. It's sweet that he's concerned about Stiles being alone on arguably the most romantic day of the year. For the past month, he's been needling Stiles into being more active on the dating app he signed up for before Christmas. It's annoying having Derek of all people take pity on him, but it's  _ sweet _ . 

“Anyway, so we're agreed. Casa Hale-Stilinski is going to be Valentine's Day free on February fourteenth.” Stiles leans forward to grab his portion of the take-out Peter brought home for dinner. He fucking  _ loves _ shawarma. 

“Wasn't planning on being here anyway,” Derek mutters, pulling his own dish over. 

Peter doesn't say anything, choosing to turn the volume up on the TV as a gravelly voice starts narrating statistics about the American justice system. Stiles eyes him with a frown, knowing he can't  _ really _ ban Peter from doing what he wants in his own apartment. 

At least Stiles has a good pair of noise canceling headphones.

* * *

It's not like Stiles is  _ completely  _ devoid of game. He's got a pretty consistent flirty thing going on with the barista at the Starbucks closest to their apartment. She knows his order and has it going before he's made it through the line. Stiles likes to think that's because he's special, not just because he comes in and orders the same iced caramel macchiato twice a day,  _ every day _ .

“I could just buy a Nespresso.” A smooth voice croons into Stiles's ear, startling him out of the zombie-like haze he hasn't snapped out of. “You wouldn't have to get dressed to get your beloved concoction.” 

Stiles has to admit that's appealing idea. “But then I wouldn't get to see Anna twice a day,” he says, looking back at Peter with a winning smile. 

Peter is dressed for work in one of his tailored, sleek suits. He looks like a shark, like you could trust him to tear you apart. Stiles looks forward, acutely aware of his rumpled jeans and stiff polo shirt with  _ Best Buy _ stitched over the chest. 

They both shuffle forward in line, and Peter continues the conversation, “No, but then I'd get the pleasure of watching you argue with the machine first thing in the morning. I bet you'd be positively adorable.” 

Stiles feels his stomach flip, annoyed at himself. Peter is a notorious flirt, and Stiles knows it doesn't  _ mean _ anything more than Peter wants to entertain himself by getting under Stiles's skin. 

“I'm not Derek.” Stiles pictures it. “He'd probably break it, if he attempted using it.” 

Peter chuckles lightly. “It'd be yours then, since I prefer a classic coffee over the too-sweet ones you drink.” 

Wouldn't it be nice? Stiles might have jumped at the opportunity to move into Peter's San Francisco apartment for literally  _ dirt cheap _ rent. He might also not kick in his fair share to cover the take-out the three of them are fond of eating. But every time Peter makes an off-hand offer to buy him something, Stiles dodges it. He doesn't come from money like the Hales, and he's okay with that. He makes enough to get through graduate school. Once he has his master's he can get a real job and start buying nicer shit for himself. 

“How is coffee the once area you're  _ not _ a snob in?” Stiles marvels, lips quirking as he steps up to the register. 

“Too many late nights at the campus library where all I had to drink was black, burnt coffee.” Peter maneuvers himself beside Stiles. He gives him a once-over that leaves Stiles feeling exposed while Peter is already turning to Anna and ordering his venti Americano,  _ black _ , telling her to add it to Stiles's order. He swipes his card before Stiles gets a chance to pull his wallet out.

“You didn't have to do that,” he mutters as they step to the other end of the counter. 

“It was faster,” Peter says. He looks past Stiles, eyes narrowing before a light hand pulls at his wrist, guiding him closer. 

Stiles rolls his eyes and moves with Peter, well adjusted to the way he and Derek are both prone to getting territorial when they happen upon other werewolves. Derek usually just pushes himself in front of Stiles, while Peter only feels satisfied if he's touching Stiles in some fashion. 

Peter's fingers circle Stiles's wrist completely, and his thumb smooths across the back of his hand. Sometimes, Stiles wonders what the werewolves smell from others, why Peter will get more handsy than others. 

“You're ridiculous,” Stiles says, looking over at Peter. They're practically holding hands. It's seven fifteen in the morning. “Big bad wolf.” 

Peter growls ever so slightly, teeth glinting behind his parted lips. He's teasing, Stiles knows, but it still sends a thrill through him. Not that he'd admit it. 

Their drinks are called, and Stiles goes to retrieve them, but Peter doesn't let go. Instead, he hooks his arm around Stiles's waist and leads them both forward. He grabs Stiles's macchiato first, hands it to him, then picks up his own. 

“Indulge me,” Peter leans close, speaks directly into Stiles's ear. 

Stiles has nothing to say, tongue frozen in his mouth as he allows Peter to direct him through the lobby of the store and onto the busy sidewalk. 

Peter steps away quickly, though not before squeezing at Stiles's hip. Maybe in assurance or thanks, Stiles doesn't know. But the touch stays, nerve endings unwilling to forget the firm warmth. 

“Can't help myself,” Peter smiles, charming, eyes dark blue in the morning light. 

Stiles sips from his straw, shrugging. It's no big deal, really. When he lowers his drink, he says, “I'm pretty sure that defense doesn't fly in court. But okay.” He smirks. 

Peter seems amused, lips stretching into a more genuine smile. “I'm not under oath.” 

Stiles shakes his head. “I gotta get to work. Thanks for the coffee.” He gives Peter a little wave and turns to head south. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. When he's waiting at the crosswalk, he sees the text Peter sent him.

It's a link for a Nespresso.

Stiles blushes and types back an emphatic  _ Noooo _ .

* * *

Thursday rolls around, but it's not a big deal. Other than the ads on Pandora suggesting Stiles buy  _ that special someone  _ something shiny and glittery, he doesn't really think about the holiday much. Derek was out the door early for his own classes while Stiles was bundled up on his bed, laptop open to his coursework. He didn't hear Peter leave for work, but Stiles slept in.

After about twenty solid minutes of reading, he needs to get up and  _ move around _ . He doesn't bother with a shirt as he pads into the kitchen. No one's home, and the only way someone could see him is with binoculars. No one is that desperate to catch a glimpse of him shirtless. Out of the three of them, Stiles is completely comfortable admitting he'd come in last in a wet t-shirt contest 

So he makes himself a k-cup and adds too much creamer, toasts himself some bread and slices up an avocado. It's peaceful as he sits at the bar and eats his breakfast. 

He's kind of  _ bored _ though.

Stiles pulls his phone out of his pocket and texts Derek  _ Happy V-day, asshole. I love you. _

Derek replies surprisingly fast with a string of poop emojis. 

Stiles sends back a kissy face.

Derek won't be back until tomorrow night. Apparently, Kira booked an Airbnb with a hot tub and a view over the bay. Stiles wouldn't be totally surprised if Derek came back and announced they are engaged. 

Stiles thumbs open the message history with Peter and sends:  _ Bets on Derek popping the question tonight? _

He doesn't get a response right away, which makes sense. Peter is probably busy with clients. Stiles closes the app and checks Instagram, liking the latest photo from Lydia of her dog sitting in her Chanel purse. He gets lost in the endless scrolling until he's startled by the sound of the front door opening. 

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks when he sees it's Peter. He crosses his arms in front of him, hunching over a little. 

Peter glides into the kitchen after dropping his satchel on the table by the door. “Thought I'd come home for lunch.” He stops next to Stiles and arches a brow. “You don't have class?” 

Stiles says, “Cancelled, but I'm doing some online work. Stopped for breakfast.” He watches Peter shrug off his suit jacket, slip it over the back of the chair next to his. 

“Brunch,” Peter corrects, smiling a little. He looks tired, and, not for the first time, Stiles wonders what horrors he is privy to in his line of work. Makes him think about the tired lines around his dad's eyes, the crease between his eyes. Peter's starting to get the same kinds of wear. 

“ _ Breakfast _ ,” he insists, getting up with his empty plate. He rinses it off before putting it in the dishwasher. “Want a sandwich?” He takes a clean plate out of the cabinet and holds it in offer. 

Peter loosens his tie, nodding. “I'm not going to turn you down.” He pulls the tie off completely and drops it on the bartop with a heavy sigh.

Stiles moves around the kitchen, getting the items he needs. The whole time, he's too conscious of Peter there, breathing and not  _ talking. _ Something about the mood has him keeping his mouth shut as well, focusing on putting the right amount of spicy mustard on the bread and piling on extra roast beef. 

When he's finished, Stiles slides the plate in front of Peter. The fingers on his other hand fidget, as uncertainty fills him.

He knows what he'd do with Derek, but that's  _ Derek _ . They've been through everything together--thick and thin, good and bad. He knows Derek's tells, knows when to give him space and when he definitely  _ shouldn't _ . 

Peter, on the other hand, has always been a distant figure, just Derek's young uncle who was always just old enough to always be moving away in experiences and location from them. That is, until they caught up, needed a place to stay while they finished up school. Peter was right there then, offering his apartment and life, opening up his den to his kid nephew and the asshole human he called his best friend.

Peter isn't a  _ good _ person, but while he's never hidden the fact that he'll do anything to get ahead, he's also been someone Stiles and Derek both have realized they can rely on. He's someone that utilizes his cunning in order to take down truly evil people. He's someone who will pretend that he only ever does anything if it profits himself. 

So Stiles hesitates, but then he's reaching out a hand and resting it tentatively on Peter's back. When it isn't shrugged off or rebuffed in any way, he moves closer and rubs circles against the softness of Peter's shirt. 

He watches Peter's eyelids drop, eyebrows deepening into a frown as he slumps. Stiles moves with it when Peter tips his head forward to rest against his sternum, stands steady so Peter can lean into him. 

They stay silent, and Stiles continues to rub Peter's back comfortingly. 

“Bad case,” Peter eventually says, breath fanning across Stiles's skin. He nuzzles Stiles, presses close like he wishes he could touch more. Then he sighs and pulls away. 

Stiles's fingers stray up to the short hairs along the back of Peter's collar. “Thank you.” 

“No problem.” He shrugs, fighting against the odd desire to wrap Peter up and hold him tight. “Derek gets like this sometimes,” he says, unsure what the right thing to say is. 

Peter's expression dirms up, pulls back from the glimpse of vulnerability Stiles saw. He nods and turns toward the bar, to his sandwich. “Thanks.” 

Stiles nods, still standing there awkwardly. He feels cold without his shirt and after he'd just been so close to Peter. He says, “Well, I  better get back to studying. I don't have much longer until my shift starts.” 

Peter nods in acknowledgment and takes a bite. 

* * *

Stiles thinks about texting Derek during work to ask what he should do about Peter. Maybe it's something that only  _ real _ pack can help with. Sure, Stiles has comforted Derek with cuddles during some of Derek's darker moments, but he and Peter just don't have that history. If anything, that moment in the kitchen was just a flimsy bandaid in comparison to the real comfort and support he might feel if Stiles had been Derek or Laura or any of his blood pack. 

He's pretty sure he's overreacting though. Stiles argues with himself about it for most of his shift. Best Buy is mostly dead tonight, which leaves him way more time with his thoughts than usual. 

Peter is a self sufficient guy. He's got walls built that keep things from affecting him much, just like Derek. They went through a shit ton of trauma when the fire happened, Stiles knows, and that definitely helped shaped who he is and how things affect him. But Stiles isn't really  _ used _ to seeing Peter genuinely upset. He's not used to seeing pain in those blue eyes, etched across his face. 

Stiles doesn't  _ like _ it. 

By the time he's finished helping close, Stiles has decided that this weekend the three of them are going to go hiking. That outdoorsy shit isn't really his thing, and to look at Peter you'd assume the same for him. But Peter is a werewolf who grew up with a whole fucking preserve at hand. Stiles knows all the stories from Derek about how the Hales would go running and camping in the woods every month. 

Clean, fresh air and open spaces couldn't do anything but good for Peter. Get his mind off whatever case he's working. Stiles can suck up a long afternoon of sore muscles for that. Maybe Kira will go with them, then he wouldn't feel like such a dweeb for taking longer than the wolves to get up the mountain. 

The apartment is dark when he gets home. Stiles toes off his sneakers and tosses his keys onto the entryway table. 

_ Good _ . Looks like Peter decided to go out after all, find his own brand of distraction. It's good. Stiles pulls his hoodie off and drops it on the back of a chair, stomach deciding if he's hungry or not.

The light over the kitchen island is on, when he rounds the corner into the kitchen. Stiles slows down, eyeing the open bottle of wine and the plate of chocolate covered strawberries sitting on the counter. 

He groans in frustration, turning to yank open the fridge, grab something to drink out of it. Looks like he'll be barricading himself in his bedroom anyway. Peter clearly decided to bring home his distraction techniques. At least they aren't pressed up against the counter kissing or fucking. Peter apparently has a modicum of decency.

“Long day?” Peter asks, apropos of nothing, sneaking into the room silently and startling Stiles. 

When Stiles turns, he sees Peter is dressed down in his pajama bottoms again, black tee swapped out for a white henley with the collar unbuttoned all the way.  He looks  _ comfy _ and he looks equally amazing in just fucking pajamas. 

_ Good for him _ . Stiles rolls his eyes. 

“Boring,” he says, eying the fruit. The berries are fat. Stiles doesn't even know where Peter would have gotten them from unless he special ordered them. “Sorry for intruding on your date.” The edge in his voice slips in without meaning to, but, “Even though I thought we all agreed the apartment was going to be a no fly zone for this stuff today.”

Peter chuckles, moving closer. He picks up the bottle of wine which has a fine shimmer of perspiration on it like it hasn't been out of the cooler very long. Stiles watches Peter casually pour some of the dark red liquid into the two glasses that had been set out. 

“You're not interrupting anything.” 

Stiles raises a brow. It's dumb that he feels a sense of relief at Peter's words. Being single doesn't make Stiles feel like a loser--he doesn't have that desperate need to find validation through dating anymore. But he has to admit that he might have been feeling  _  a little _ sorry for himself as the holiday approached. He takes the offered glass of wine and takes a whiff of the dark scent. It's his favorite. 

“A little self-care?” Stiles asks before taking a too deep sip from his glass. The slide of the liquid down his throat is smooth, leaving a pleasant warmth to coil in his stomach. If he drinks too much, he'll be falling asleep in fifteen minutes. Not that he couldn't use the sleep. 

“No,” Peter says simply. He uses the tip of a finger to drag the dish of strawberries closer, so it's positioned between where the two of them are standing. “I'm breaking the agreement.”

Stiles squints a little.

Peter picks up a strawberry, inspecting it even though it looks  _ perfect _ . 

The silence is weighted, tugging at Stiles until he snaps. “ _ What does that mean? _ ”

Peter smirks a little, biting off the end of the fruit. He says, “I want us to date.” 

“Uh,” Stiles feels his ears heat. “Say what?” 

Because,  _ what? _

“Do you want to date?” Peter sighs, each word coming out slowly as if he isn't sure Stiles grasps the meaning. He holds the half-eaten berry out to Stiles.

Taking it just so he has something to occupy his mouth, biting off the last of the edible bit. It's sweet, juicy, and he wants more. Around his bite, he says, “You wanna date  _ me _ .” 

Peter picks up another strawberry, holding it up to Stiles. “Yes,” he says, simply. “Do you have any objections?” 

Stiles accepts the offer, feeling slightly off-kilter from just... _ the whole thing _ . His teeth slice into the delicate chocolate casing and into the flesh of the fruit. It's the perfect combination. He's never had chocolate covered strawberries, never really had a desire for them either. But he knows what he's been missing out on now. 

He groans, lids dropping as he savors the taste and texture. “Fuck,” he says softly.

When he opens his eyes again, face heating, he sees Peter looking at him, standing so close. 

“I mean, do you have any objections to dating  _ me _ .” He keeps the strawberry at mouth level. “But I'm glad the fruit and wine aren't hurting my chances.” 

Stiles smiles, realizes he's been smiling for the last few minutes. “Definitely not.” He catches Peter's wrist and takes the second bite. “No objections.” 

The low, satisfied hum that rumbles from his chest makes Stiles's toes curl in his shoes. “Good. If this didn't work, I was going to but the Nespresso anyway.” Peter twists his wrist and drops the end of the strawberry before tangling his and Stiles's fingers together. 

They drift together and that first kiss. It's sweeter and warmer than the wine or the chocolate covered strawberries. There in the kitchen, minutes to midnight and still dressed in his stale work clothes, and Stiles can't believe he didn't see this coming. 

 


End file.
